


The Sharp Teeth of the One You Love

by Venhedish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Blood and Injury, Dean Winchester AKA Repression Boy, Destiel - Freeform, Drinking, Drunk Castiel (Supernatural), First Kiss, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venhedish/pseuds/Venhedish
Summary: “Quit bein’ a baby, Cas.” Dean’s hands were covered in blood, but they were steady as always while he worked to stitch Castiel back together.“I’m sorry,” Cas growled between gritted teeth. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience feeling pain.” He hissed again when Dean slid the curved needle back through the eight-inch-long gash that ran deep and bloody down Cas’s bicep.Castiel learns something about what it means to be human.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	The Sharp Teeth of the One You Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Chelsea Wolfe's ["Sick."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCZ20lC3E0E)  
> Beta'd by [Kalutyka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalutyka).
> 
> Just a heads up that Cas experiences the side effects of drinking too much in this story (he pukes). I didn't put it in the tags because I didn't want it to come across like a sex thing. It's definitely not a sex thing.

  
Hazy sunlight filtered in through the low window over the kitchen sink; it caught against dust motes and cobwebs and made them glow like spun gold in the otherwise dingy interior of the hunting cabin.

From the table came a sudden, agonized hiss of pain. 

“Quit bein’ a baby, Cas.” Dean’s hands were covered in blood, but they were steady as always while he worked to stitch Castiel back together. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas growled between gritted teeth. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience feeling pain.” He hissed again when Dean slid the curved needle back through the eight-inch-long gash that ran deep and bloody down Cas’s bicep. 

“Yeah, well. Be thankful you didn’t end up a croat chew toy,” Dean said. He picked up the damp rag that rested on the tabletop next to him, soaked through rusty red with Cas’s blood. “You aren’t drinkin’ Heaven’s go-juice anymore, Cas. You can’t just run in guns blazin’ like that.” He left the needle dangling from its thread halfway down the split in Cas’s skin and upended more whiskey onto the rag before taking a swig himself. He dragged the cloth down the wound, smearing red across the pale skin. Cas reached out in reflex from the pain, gripped Dean’s knee tight as he grimaced through the worst of the sting. 

“I have never gone anywhere ‘ _guns blazing_ ’,” Cas said eventually, letting his hand drift from Dean back to his own lap. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean said with a low laugh, working on the next stitch now that he could see what he was doing again. “We’re gonna have to get you trained up. Remind me to set up some targets out back later.” They were holed up a day or two out from Bobby’s place. Heaven had gone silent about two weeks back, and things were reaching a fever pitch everywhere. The phones were down, electric grid on the way out, croats in just about every town they drove through, and Sam was ... well. They didn’t talk about Sam. 

Castiel shifted his weight and turned to face Dean, who grunted in annoyance. “Hold still, god dammit,” he bit out, but Cas ignored him; he just tilted his head, waiting to be acknowledged. Dean’s nostrils flared. He seemed determined to pretend Cas _wasn’t_ staring a hole in the side of his head, but a frustrated sigh escaped him and he finally looked up. “What?” 

A weak half-smile dragged up at the corner of Castiel’s mouth, and he just looked at Dean for a long moment. He reached out again with his uninjured arm and gripped Dean by the shoulder; the significance of the action wasn’t lost on either of them. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, “for all that has passed, but especially for becoming a burden.” He squeezed his fingers gently, hoping Dean might take some small comfort from the motion. “You have enough to worry about without trying to keep me alive on top of everything else.” 

Dean held his gaze, his expression unreadable. They sat in silence as the dim light of the late afternoon pooled in around them. A bird called in the distance – a lark, perhaps. Castiel was fond of birds. 

Finally, Dean cleared his throat and shook his head. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Then just do me a favor and keep on kickin’, okay? I can’t lose you, too.” His eyes shone, but he turned for the whiskey bottle and his face was clear again when he looked back up. He pushed at Cas’s arm to adjust him back into position. “Now, will you shut up so I can finish this?” 

Dean worked in silence and Cas watched, fascinated by the glint of the needle as it disappeared beneath his flesh, the slide of the string going taut as it pulled his pieces back together. Healing had never been a painful process before, but he felt every sharp, glassy stab of it now and it was almost a relief – to be pulled out of the stupor of walking the earth without his grace. He watched Jimmy Novak’s blood drain in rivulets down into the crook of his elbow and felt for the first time that it belonged to him, too. 

Dean’s actions were precise, his hands practiced. The way he tied each stitch with a flick of the wrist and a quick, sure tug was a minor work of art. He did this over and over, and each time Cas expected the loop to slip, but it never did. Dean tied the last stitch, completing a line of over twenty that trailed down Cas’s once immaculate skin. “You’re very good at that,” Cas said, finally breaking the silence. 

Dean leaned back in his chair and stretched the tension out of his shoulders, twisting his neck from side to side, vertebrae popping. “Not as handy as a holy finger to the forehead, but it’ll heal fine if you keep it clean." He grabbed the bottle again. “This is gonna sting like a bitch,” he said, and he spilled the whiskey down Cas’s shoulder. 

The muscles of Cas's entire right side clenched, but he swallowed down the pain, let it settle and burn deep in his chest. He watched the amber liquid sluice down his arm, mixing red with his blood. It dripped from his fingertips onto the faded linoleum of the kitchen floor. 

He’d never tasted whiskey before, he realized. When Dean was done and the bottle was upright again, Cas flexed his fingers and brought his hand up to his mouth. 

He licked the end of his pointer finger curiously, the flat of his tongue shining with liquor and blood and spit. Dean watched him with one eyebrow raised, but said nothing. It tasted bitter, metallic and sweet; it burned on his tongue. It was not a pleasant taste, even worse than beer. “Why do humans subject themselves to this?” he asked, looking up at Dean. 

“For starters, most of us don’t chase our liquor with blood,” he said, holding out the bottle for Cas. “But ... anything to numb the pain for a while.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what it tastes like.” 

Castiel took the bottle from him and brought it to his lips after a cursory sniff that burned in his nostrils. He tilted his head back and let the whiskey slide down his throat; the lack of blood was not a major improvement on the flavor. He coughed a little, passed the bottle back to Dean. “Is it that painful,” he asked, “being human?” 

Dean choked in surprise and it almost sounded like a laugh. He dragged his hand over his face. “Jesus, Cas! What a question.” He drank again, tried to wipe his filthy hands on his jeans. “It definitely sucks sometimes— _like now_ —and it’ll probably keep sucking ‘til it all burns up around us. Not really seeing much chance for a light at the end of this tunnel.” 

Castiel grabbed the whiskey from Dean’s hand before he could offer it again and took two long pulls that burned all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He set it back on the table with a hollow _thunk_ and realized the bottle was almost empty. “Guess I’d better get used to it, then,” he said, and he felt a weight settle inside him that he’d never felt before, hard and bitter and sick. 

“Guess so,” Dean said with a note of finality. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. He made to walk away from the table, maybe to go set up those targets in the back, or to wash his hands, or lie down and try to forget it all for a while. But Castiel wanted more from him, wasn’t ready to let it go – so he reached out and grabbed Dean by the wrist. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he’d done it. 

Dean stilled, but he didn’t try to pull himself free; he let Cas’s fingers squeeze against his pulse point, feel the steady thump of his human heart as it beat beneath his skin. 

Castiel stood, too, his face very close to Dean’s, and his mouth barely moved when he said, “I am glad that I have you.” He let his grip soften, dragged his fingers up Dean’s arm. “I’m sorry that it hurts.” 

Suddenly, Cas was being slammed back against the kitchen wall, the breath knocked out of him from the force of Dean’s weight. He could smell the liquor on Dean’s mouth, pungent and sweet. Would it taste the same there, he wondered? 

“ _Don’t, Cas_.” Dean warned, and his voice was hot and alive with danger. But Cas wasn’t sure what he shouldn’t be doing; his head was swimming, and he felt brave and desperate and inconsolably sad. 

Cas lifted his hand very slowly—as if Dean was a frightened animal who might bolt at any moment—and rested it against the side of Dean’s face. He felt the rough of stubble under his palm and the sensation made the world contract around him. Dean’s eyes were wet. Cas blinked, and he realised his were, too. “Maybe it doesn’t have to hurt so much,” Cas whispered. He let his thumb run over Dean’s bottom lip; it trembled beneath his touch. He felt the warm huff of Dean’s breath against his skin. “Maybe we could heal each other.” 

Dean grabbed Cas’s wrist and pulled it away from his face, rough and angry. Cas thought for a moment that Dean would hit him, but he didn’t. Instead, Dean leaned in with a sudden, frustrated sigh, and his mouth was hard on Cas’s, driving into him, pushing him further back into the wall. Their tongues slid together and it _did_ taste different – smokier and sharper, like Dean. 

Dean kissed Cas like he was losing a fight, desperate with his teeth and his hands, scrambling for purchase on Cas’s bare chest, his jaw, his hips. 

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice low and broken, and the moment was over. 

Dean pushed away from him and stumbled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He grabbed his jacket from the table and slung it on, slid his gun into the waistband of his jeans, and walked to the back door. 

“I’ll get those targets set up,” he said. His voice was ragged, his chest heaving. He nodded as if Cas had responded, more to himself than anything, eyes glazed and distant. 

“Okay,” Castiel said. His blood was pounding in his ears, rushing through him like a violent ocean. He looked up, tried to catch Dean’s eyes, but Dean was gone, his back a silhouette on the other side of the screen door. 

Cas stood there for a long time, reeling while the world spun around him. He felt unsteady on his feet, and his stomach lurched suddenly. He rushed to the sink and vomited, whiskey and bile spilling out of him in a hot, disgusting rush. Everything burned as he heaved over and over; his throat, his nose, his eyes. He took in deep, gasping breaths, his brow prickling uncomfortably with a sheen of sweat. He steadied himself against the counter with shaking arms as the worst of the nausea passed. 

He rinsed his mouth with tepid water from the sink and spit, wiping his face with a whiskey-reeking hand. He almost threw up again and he dropped back into his chair – had to sit with his head between his knees for a long time. 

When he came up again, the world was an oversaturated mess of light and shadow. The whiskey bottle stood like an omen on the table, sunlight turning the glass into a burning prism that glinted amber and hurt his eyes. He grabbed it and turned it over in his hands, frustrated and sick and helplessly, hopelessly human. 

Dean had been wrong, he thought, as he dropped the bottle into the trash beside his own bloody, ruined shirt; it didn’t numb the pain at all – it only made it worse.  



End file.
